Who We Are
by Razer Athane
Summary: Men, seduced by the beauty of violence. An itch, a mirror and a wakeup call. -Oneshot-


Disclaimer: Stiiiiill don't own Tekken. Sadface.

Author's Note: My second entry into this year's fanfic competition (let's see if I can make it two years in a row! XD). My first is "Pathway", a Kingdom Hearts oneshot focusing on Axel. But... I really want this one to win out of my two submissions, because of how much pride and fun I have in portraying this guy. Finished this in about three hours, ten minutes before the deadline (PROCRASTINATE PROCRASTINATE ALL WRITERS PROCRASTINATE), I'm fuckin' exhausted, but I'm proud. I don't think it's my best, but its certainly the best thing I've written in a while. Anyway, enjoy guys.

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><p><strong>WHO WE ARE<strong>

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><p>"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"<p>

Although the Seoul streets were far behind him, he could still hear those ruffians shout at him in the middle of one of the matches, whether it was fixed or not. He could still smell the alcohol as it flowed from their breath, and he could still feel their energy, their thirst and desire for blood. Men, seduced by the beauty of violence.

They weren't here, but the same fetish for sadism remained. He could understand – testosterone often fuelled such reckless hate after all – but Hwoarang personally loathed it. He had to cope with it as a fighter, though, even as he threw the final triple spin kick. It collided with force, and he watched with a faint, quiet glee as the opponent dropped to the metal floor, unconscious. He could hear the roar of the beasts, hissing for more.

Pretence remained as he raised his fist in victory and maintained a neutral face. It felt as though every muscle in his body was fiercely tense in addition to aching, until he felt that he had catered to their needs enough. Dropping his fist, he turned to walk off of the arena, trying to calm his nerves as the shadows of the exiting tunnel swallowed him whole. He had won his third match in the King Of Iron Fist Tournament 7.

It was only then did the itch start.

As he passed through the darkness and ended up in his room, the itch began to strengthen. The numbness he had thrown himself into before for the battle was beginning to wear off, and he was starting to feel again. The hate. The anger. The helplessness and the desire to hurt and to help, and to try and escape his own, private pain.

So much had happened within the last two years. He didn't know where to begin, as he entered his hotel room and collapsed onto his bed, gazing blankly at the ceiling through sienna eyes. He clenched his fists and tried to even out his breathing, because it felt as though that his heart was going far too fast just at the memories of the world's end, and the realisation that he managed to survive.

Really, 'disaster' was all too light a word to describe what Jin Kazama had done to the world two years ago. A goody two shoes, then the psychotic flip into a madman – and then back again, because he brought about the world's destruction in a delusional attempt to become a hero and remedy himself of the Devil Gene. And unlike those other times where he quietly saved the world from a beast or a mutant man, he failed.

It cost him more than his own twisted life – it cost the world _three billion _lives, Hwoarang recalled as he rolled onto his side, subconsciously scratching his neck. He did not care that the blood from his fight would likely stain the white sheets. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the face of his mentor, Baek Doo San, who had been taken in the disastrous war between the two giant companies at the time – the Mishima Financial Empire and G-Corporation. He tried to remember other tournament participants that he had been friends with too, like Julia Chang and Steve Fox, who had died in the bombings.

Their faces never came into place wholly anymore, because he had such a bad imagination.

They were innocent and had done nothing wrong. No crimes, no blood money on his hands – it should've been him. At the time, though, he was fighting alongside his mentor before his death, within the little band of rebel men he called the Resistance – _such _a creative name – to try and break the hold that both companies had on the world, because Hwoarang knew that as sinister as his former rival had been, Jin's Father, the owner of G-Corporation, was just as bad.

With the death of one tyrant, another took his place. Kazuya Mishima.

Kazuya did not need to throw out his own bombs and raids, because Jin had done that for him to bring the world to its knees and to heighten the world's sadness. Kazuya did not need to mercilessly kill as Jin had, because the summoned Egyptian beast, Azazel, had done it for him, before he single-handedly annihilated him in place of his son with a single, satanical punch. Following this, he seized control of both companies and now literally ruled the world.

Some part of Hwoarang questioned why he didn't stand up and fight this time.

In this post-apocalyptic and still newborn world, it had been well documented that the Korean was the only fighter outside of the Mishima family to be able to fairly defeat Jin in a battle. He never flaunted the fact that afterwards, Jin turned into his demonic self and beat him within inches of his life, but it was still a fact that he'd been rather proud of, especially as it settled the score from that _stupid _draw earlier in his life. He still fought for what he believed in, and that was unquestioned and unconditional freedom.

Surely he was still strong enough at twenty-four years old to stand up.

The itch stirred again, and he rolled over and did not resist its call, digging his nails into his skin and dragging them up and down a well sculpted bicep. He didn't really have a name for it other than 'the itch', because he literally got itchy when he felt he felt mentally fatigued or deeply troubled. He hated the sensation. He absolutely _hated _it.

His hate for it heightened when he realised that it just was not going away this time. Without much else to think of, he shot up and headed straight for the bathroom, hoping that the water's soothing touch would at least ease him in some way. He didn't feel like having a shower right now, but maybe if he just splashed his face…

There he is! Running away, as usual.

Hwoarang paused, merely inches away from the sink. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder, as though he were searching for something that wasn't there. Several moments passed before he deemed it safe – as though this new world could be called 'safe' anyway – to turn his back to the bathroom door and turn on the tap. As expected, the water calmed him a little, and took away the severity of the sensation.

It was as he raised his head and felt the droplets slide down his chin did he dare to look in the mirror.

It was when he looked into the mirror did he jump several feet back, horrified.

Surprise!

There he was – the former gang leader, the prized Tae Kwon Do fighter trained by the great Baek Doo San, the former SpecOps sergeant – in the mirror, as expected, but not-quite-as-expected. He knew that he had dyed red hair – it was a recent dye, too – and that his outfit consisted of green, orange, blue, black and silver colours, but… what he saw before him did not match.

Hwoarang furrowed his eyebrows, studying his reflection which apparently had a mind of its own, because it did not like to imitate him. It didn't reach across and scratch his side like he just did. Instead, he ran his _light grey fingers_ through his _jet black hair_ – and it felt so weird seeing himself like that, because he dyed his hair to stand out, not blend in – and the guy chuckled. The rest of his outfit was various shades of grey too, sparing his goggles and eyes, which were still sienna like his.

"The hell?" he hissed, "What's this?"

To his further shock, this… _version _of himself, who he mentally dubbed Shadow Hwoarang, walked out of the mirror as though he were a ghost. He could hear the shoes hit the tiles, though, and the rustle of his vest as he stretched his arms across his chest and then behind his head.

He could hear the long exhalation and Shadow Hwoarang's free-flowing voice thereafter, and even the berating tone that he tried poorly to conceal, What's it look like, idiot? I'm you, but cooler! Wait, no, awesomer – better in every way, too. I still think you should get rid of the red, Hwoarang.

How in the world is this even possible? It's just so…

And then, he felt a stinging sensation come from his jaw. Shadow Hwoarang had kicked him across the face and hurled him into the wall opposite. He fell forward with a grunt and furrowed his eyebrows, annoyed at having been taken advantage of, and stood to his full height, tightening his fists, "The hell was that for?"

To try and get you to wake the hell up, he growled, now entirely serious as he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets.

Hwoarang paused, unsure of how to respond to such a bland statement. He watched as the darker version of himself turned on his heels and sauntered a few steps to his right, patting himself down for a smoke. At least there was one thing in common between them, then – they both liked smoke. More so cigarette smoke because screwed with his senses and even his mind.

Upon failing to locate one, Shadow Hwoarang shrugged nonchalantly and looked over his shoulder, staring a hole into him, What are you _doing_, man? You're just sitting here and watching a world fall to pieces because you're too lazy to get up off your ass, throw your fist into the air and go 'Kazuya? Screw that douche, I'm beating him'.

A part of him stirred inside, and he chose to ignore it in case it was because of his doppelganger's influence… somehow.

Wait, I know! he excitedly continued, his mind running faster than his mouth, Hwoarang, Baek Doo San's most talented and deadly student, so strong and famous for his dirty mouth and prowess in battle… he turned, a dark grin blooming instantly, He who proclaims to care about nothing, but is really _terrified_ of _life._

The comment earned Shadow Hwoarang a kick to the side of the head. While it did collide and solidify the fact that he was _flesh and blood and really here, _it did nothing to truly damage him physically. The rage was beginning to settle in, and the itch was worse than ever. It was as though he wanted to scratch off his skin until there was nothing but muscle left.

He who is so alone, with a frozen, bitter heart. Screaming at the world because _nobody cares _to _listen._

He threw a punch this time, and to counter this, Shadow Hwoarang returned the strike, knocking him to the floor with ease. The darker figure strode forward and laughed, kicking him again whilst he was down as though he were a ball. He took several steps back thereafter, allowing him to stand, because he wasn't really that cruel.

The real Hwoarang wiped blood from his lips and growled lowly under his breath, scratching his cheek before his hand left his face. He could still taste it in his mouth and moved to spit it to his left, speaking afterwards as calmly as possible, "I'm _not scared _and I _certainly _don't care about the goddamn world. Screw humanity."

Such a crafty liar, buuut you're forgetting one thing… he tapped his head rapidly, a psychotic grin forming, _I know you! _I know when you lie and I know what you feel, because I'm the darker part of you. The part you never want to see or hear, because you're scared of what I could do to you and to others. But it's not like that matters anymore, is it? Baek's dead, so there's no real reason to try and hold me back, y'know. I'm gonna win.

A kick soared through the air, but Shadow Hwoarang grabbed him by the calf and then threw him against the wall as though he were a lightweight toy. He laughed again when the real Hwoarang started coughing and groaning in pain – that collision really hurt, and he was already very sore and tired from the fight against the nameless opponent.

Of course you're scared. Why else haven't you set up another Resistance group and gone to fight against Kazuya aside from being terrified of losing your own life, at least? he paused, mocked thought, and then spat out in an over-the-top tone, Oh, right, you're guilty! Guilty that despite your attempts, _you still failed _to make a difference_, _and that familiar feeling of blood on your hands came back. And you didn't like it, so you pretend that you never cared in the first place, shutting yourself down.

You, in your goddamn apartment listening to the Smashing Pumpkins and smoking yourself to death, because you don't wanna try and shine anymore, his voice turned serious, You don't believe that you should've tried in the first place, because nobody wants to listen to you anyway – and why should they? You don't mean anything, you're not special at all! You just _exist, _like every other man who is seduced by the beauty of violence and the love of fighting.

He laughed and threw his hands out to either side of him, You're a mess! A worthless kid without a hope in the world who hides his face from the light!

By now, the real Hwoarang was on his feet again, and he only just began to unleash a series of kicks. Mid, high, low, mid, mid, low, it didn't matter – his strings were endless and his rage was unparallel. He didn't need some idiot version of himself pointing out the flaws in his character – he knew his flaws. He didn't like them, but he still knew that they were there, and what they were.

His darker self's voice shifted again, and there was a faint, feral hiss in it as he continued, dodging another roundhouse kick, You are a _disaster _of a human being…

That did it. Shadow Hwoarang was suddenly grabbed by his hair and then pinned against the wall, chest first. The real Hwoarang seethed, shaking and he swore he was _not _crying, because he shouldn't cry, "Why are you here? _Seriously!_"

I told you! he replied with a singsong tone, turning so that his cheek was flat against the cool wall, To try and get you to wake the hell up!

"I _am _awake!" But there was a part of him that doubted it, because there _is _a second version of himself in the room, after all.

But are you alive? he countered lowly with a smirk, letting the question hang in the air.

Hwoarang pressed his lips together tightly until they formed an unwavering line. He knew the answer, but he didn't want to say it to his adversary's face. Since all of this started, since… the disaster decided to unravel, he indeed felt dead inside. The thrill of fighting was the only thing that kept him going, no matter the situation. He just… didn't feel like himself anymore. He didn't…

_Cracking… apart –_

"I don't know… I don't know who I am anymore."

_Defeat._

At this, Shadow Hwoarang finally smiled, although it was a small one. It wasn't condescending, it wasn't cruel, and it wasn't in amusement – it was genuine, _Now _we're getting somewhere.

His actions betrayed his true intentions, though, when he twisted out of his real self's grip and held _him _there against the wall instead, his grip twice as tight, knowing that force was needed in this situation. The smile had since morphed into a smirk, and after several Korean swears from his real self, Shadow Hwoarang deemed it time to speak again.

I'll _tell _you who you are. You're the Blood Talon. Seoul's streets have _never _been the same since you left, and your name still strikes fear deep into the hearts of your former enemies. You're the SpecOps sergeant with a penchant for breaking the rules out of boredom and then kicking ass on the battlefield. You're the _only_ man outside of that wretched Mishima family who beat the infamous Jin Kazama fairly. You're Baek Doo San's best student, the only one he truly believed in and could call _a son._

Somewhere in the back of Hwoarang's mind, he felt the pieces falling together, like a jigsaw puzzle. He felt his old self slowly infect every part of him, and as it crawled through him, the itch began to recede. And he didn't understand why and it only made the itch even more confusing as to what it truly meant. As he slowly began to settle, as the rage and confusion began to recede, Shadow Hwoarang slowly let up on his vice-like grip.

You're the man who tried to change the world, but failed. That doesn't mean you can't try again. 

Maybe… maybe he should try again. He'd beaten Jin, he could surely muster the same strength and drive to overthrow Kazuya and get some type of world order happening again. He knew there'd be those who were willing to die for the cause, just like before. Baek might not be by his side any longer, but he was certain that he'd want him to _do something _instead of just sitting there, wasting away.

You are the tears that passion cried, the flame that wouldn't die and the one who refused to be left behind. You won't give up the fight again and you won't be denied. 

Shadow Hwoarang let go and then took several steps back.

That's who you are – who _we _are. Forever.

"And you are the itch I could never scratch," Hwoarang countered quietly, turning to face him.

Upon turning to face him, though, he exhaled sharply. Shadow Hwoarang wasn't there anymore. He wasn't there anymore, there was no breathing, and there was no patronising or anything else of the sort. Deterred and shaken up more so by his sudden disappearance – and he wasn't itchy anymore? What? – he ran out into the main room again, searching for the dark figure.

He wasn't there.

Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He was normal again. There were his tattered clothes, and his skull-star necklace, and his sienna eyes and his red hair and his beloved goggles. There was still blood on the corner of his mouth, and when he gazed down, Hwoarang saw the remnants of a hand mark around his forearm.

Such things indicated to him that what had just occurred… really did happen. That he wasn't crazy. It was real, for sure. That the event happened for a _reason, _too, because he certainly felt… more alive. Like he could take on the world, give anybody who opposed him the finger, and then beat their face in for calling his attitude 'fake'.

When Hwoarang looked back up, for a split second, he saw him. Shadow Hwoarang, the itch, whatever. The moment he looked back up, he felt itchy everywhere again for that split second, and he realised that although the feeling was gone for now, it'd come back one day. It'd come back if he denied and didn't accept or acknowledge his flaws – because before this happened, he sure as hell didn't accept them, he merely acknowledged them. If he didn't try to make a difference again, like he really wanted to. If he just decided to lie down and die because it was the easier way.

Something warm suddenly touched his right arm. He looked down to it and noted that it was illuminated by a strong ray of sunlight. Redirecting his gaze to the window rather than turning away from the light, he stared at the sun and its strength, as it shone down on Tokyo's inner district. There was no way he was going to give up the fight again. No way, no how. He won't fade away. He was gonna fight, and nobody could contain him.

With a deep inhalation, Hwoarang moved to the light and gazed down at the streets below, calculating future plans.


End file.
